


Coming Down Slow

by Delphi



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Circle Jerk, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Military, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are handjobs and comradely snuggling, even in the grimdark future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Down Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo 2013. Kink: Uniforms/Military Kink

Two bodies make more warmth than one, and three more than two, and a strange hand is always sweeter than your own. That’s Colm Corbec’s thinking anyhow, and there’s nothing to disprove this particular bit of received wisdom as the heat gathers around an efficient tangle of limbs and the quick sound of flesh on flesh whispers under the camouflage of heavy breathing in the dark hours of a frigid morning.

They’re all three of them stupid with cold and exhaustion after a long and tryingly quiet watch. The smell of smoke and drink mingles with winter sweat in the confines of Corbec’s tent, but there’s not enough tobacco or liquor in supply to bring them down easy, so this time it’s the other thing. 

Corbec has got his hand around the not-inconsiderable heft of Bragg’s cock, pulling steadily. Bragg’s eyes are bloodshot, their lids drooping with a combination of fatigue and pleasure as he moves three big fingers down the front of Larkin’s open fly.

Larkin squirms, his back twisting as his hips try to roll along with Bragg’s careful strokes. He’s crammed in between the two of them, propped up against a bearing post and muttering nonsense under his breath. His eyes are pressed shut, and he’s shaking a little, and he’s got his hand in Corbec’s lap, bestowing the sort of surprisingly coordinated, backwards rub-and-tug that only a man accustomed to reassembling a rifle in the dark under fire could manage in his condition.

It’s...very good.

Half of command, Corbec has figured out by now, is just the proper assembling of resources. He’s got the private tent and the cigars, and Bragg has always got a suspicious amount of extra grog rations and sacra for a lad who needs a barrel of the stuff to get tipsy, and Larkin—Emperor bless him—is more than good with his hands and runs about two degrees hotter than anyone should without frying their brains (and that “without” is suspect). He’s warming Corbec right up everywhere they’re touching, nicer than a chem-pack, even figuring in the bony shoulder currently digging into Corbec’s chest. 

There’s the sound of a dry swallow and then Bragg’s muffled oath of restraint as he all but trembles under Corbec’s hand, younger than him and Larkin by a long way and always first out the gate by a long shot. 

“Go on, lad,” Corbec murmurs. Politely averted eyes are the unspoken rule, but his eyelids are like rasps at the moment, and his gaze flickers at least half-appreciatively from the sight of Bragg’s thick red cock in his fist to the span of Bragg’s hand against Larkin’s narrow hips. 

His eyes linger on the slow, almost soothing strokes that have Larkin’s head lolling. The glimpses of bare skin between untucked shirt and gaping fly. The oddly tender back and forth of Bragg’s thumb against Larkin’s stomach.

His own arousal sharpens, a flare in the fog. His strokes speed up encouragingly as Bragg trembles again.

“Buggering feth,” Bragg mutters, his breathing growing rougher as he quickly untangles his hand from Larkin’s trousers. 

Corbec has to wonder sometimes how Bragg manages with women when he’s so hold-your-breath careful with his strength. He won’t touch anyone but himself when he’s coming, even when the act—a jerk of his hips and the first copious shot of four, straight into a waiting handkerchief with true aim when Corbec’s the one holding the gun—is accompanied by hardly more than a very low moan and knitted brows and the brief flex of fingers.

Larkin’s eyes squint open. The look on his face suggests that he’s more put out at being left hanging than he might have been at having his pelvis broken. Good man that he is though, his own hand hardly flags, and Corbec bites his lip, close, nearly there.

“Sorry.” Bragg grins sheepishly and zips up before giving Larkin his undivided attention. 

They find their rhythm again—two or three of Larkin’s brisk strokes to every one of Bragg’s—and Corbec fights off a case of the shivers as his system threatens to overload. Too tired and too awake. Too cold and too hot. Too much and not enough. 

This time he does look away, when Larkin’s breath catches and Bragg’s fingers seem to be venturing suspiciously low.

“Feth...” Larkin groans, the sound of it strained and thin, and then he’s squirming even harder, his elbow digging into Corbec’s stomach. 

From the corner of his eye, Corbec not-watches him slouch down, one heel digging into the ground as he bucks up impatiently. They’re all pressed too close together for Corbec not to feel the slow rock of Bragg’s hand, and while no one is slipping a finger behind _his_ stones, thank you very much, the persuasive roll of Larkin’s hips is all he needs to push him past the last grasp of control.

A rough sound barks from deep in his throat as he pushes into Larkin’s grip. His dry eyes squeeze shut in sweet agony. He distantly hears the hard thump of Larkin throwing his head back against the post—once, twice—and then the muffling sound of Bragg’s other hand sliding in between. Then the rush of his own blood takes over and he’s coming hard, a bone-deep shake and shiver of satisfaction unwinding his muscles and taking the breath from him in one good long rush.

Larkin’s too far gone to realise he should stop. His fist keeps on pumping long after his fingers are dripping with spunk, dragging out Corbec’s spending and hauling him to the edge of too much.

"That's fine, Larks," he says, breathless, grabbing Larkin's wrist and prying him loose. 

It's doubtful Larkin even hears him. The feverish muttering is taken up again, "Sweet feth" the only words that make it out whole in between increasingly noisy moans.

"Shhh," Corbec hushes, and he slaps a companionable hand across Larkin's mouth before half the camp is alerted to what they're up to. It is in fact the hand that was recently engaged with Bragg's cock, but he's got a feeling Larkin won't mind.

"Almost there," Bragg rumbles soothingly, and an instant later, Larkin's arching up with a long, muffled whine.

Hot breath huffs hard against Corbec's hand as Larkin comes with rabbiting hips and scrabbling hands. It's a right production, and Corbec is hard-pressed not to laugh. He makes do with a weary chuckle, not least at the tender expression on Bragg's face. 

Larkin sags back, lax and limp. They're silent for a moment. Then Corbec sighs.

The brief attempt at industry that follows is slow and cack-handed. Handkerchiefs are pulled out or put away. Flies are fastened. The last of the sacra gets lazily passed between them for a few swallows each. Corbec tries to relight his cigar, but it turns out he doesn't have the wits for it. He ends up chewing on the end instead, leaning heavily against Larkin, his breathing slowing.

There's an unwelcome wiggle of movement. Larkin pushes himself unsteadily to his feet with the pop of cartilage and his hands bearing down on Corbec and Bragg's shoulders for balance. Once up, he sways like a half-felled tree.

"Come on, Larks..." Corbec slurs in complaint, a chill blossoming along the side that's been abandoned. He reaches up and grabs Larkin by the back of his trousers, then yanks him back down, supposing he'll only get up again if his intent is anything more pressing than staggering back to his bunk.

Sure enough, Larkin grumbles a protest but lies where he's landed, half-sprawled across Bragg's lap. He visibly fights off sleep for barely five seconds before burrowing down like a weasel and shutting his eyes. Corbec slings an arm around him and leans in heavily, thinking only of the animal pleasure of shared body heat. Bragg is like a mossy hill—a warm, softly snoring mossy hill—and the listing heap the three of them slowly collapse into is a damn sight more comfortable than a creaky cot.

Corbec closes his eyes, already feeling himself sliding into the black embrace of sleep. There they stay until the next changing of the watch.


End file.
